“No, I am going alone.”
She shook her head. “No, no, you will have some one with you, for I am going with you.”
I was amazed to the point of speechlessness. When I regained my tongue I exclaimed:
“You know perfectly well that the government will never permit it.”
“Yes. That is why I shall not ask the government. I have always wanted to see the world, and especially Paris. I never saw how I could do it till you fell into my garden—and I know that I can trust you.”
“But how will you manage it?”
“I shall be your companion.”
“You can’t, you speak neither Greek nor French. Every one will guess you are Turkish.”
“I can be an Armenian, and as for French I am going to learn it. We have time. You can teach me.”
Nothing delighted me more than an adventure—and such an uncommon one. Until late into the night we talked about her trip, studying it in its various aspects. We decided that I should first write to the convent where I stayed in Paris to ask if they would take an Armenian lady. Later I was to write to the Compagnie Fabre and engage her stateroom. “But the passport,” I cried suddenly. “You must have a passport, you know, to leave Turkey.”